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She’d been so flustered she’d momentarily forgotten what he looked like right then, but if they were going out in public, they needed to be photo-ready at all times. That was the whole point.
Thank God he was paying more attention.
She stepped into his apartment. “Of course, you want to change before we head out.”
“Oh, I’m not going to change,” he said, running his eyes over her standard uniform designer suit as he shut the door. “But you are.”
* * *
“You’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?”
Ryder shrugged. “Where would the fun be in that?”
Vicky shook her head, tilting her head down so the faded brim of the baseball cap she was wearing hid her smile.
He had outfitted her in an oversized T-shirt (well, it probably clung to his muscular chest rather snugly, but on her, it was oversized). On the front, bold letters announced My FUNNY T-shirt is in the wash. He’d also given her an extra-warm hoodie, which she was swimming in and which smelled musky and masculine (and just like he always smelled, not that she would notice such a thing). Under those, he’d insisted she wear the yoga pants and sneakers she’d had in her gym bag. Her hair was in a high ponytail threaded through the back of the cap, and she was wearing her sunglasses. She had no idea where they were headed.
Ryder shifted his beat-up backpack (the contents of which he had also refused to divulge) from one shoulder to the other, grabbing onto the subway pole with his free hand.
Vicky hadn’t been on the subway in . . . well, she wasn’t sure when she’d ridden the subway. She knew she’d taken the Métro once or twice in Paris back when she’d spent her semester abroad there. Frankly, she’d always assumed she couldn’t take New York public transportation without being recognized, given how often she appeared in the style pages or, occasionally, as recent events had demonstrated, the gossip columns. But so far this little excursion was disproving that theory.
And she was quite sure she’d never been on a train as crowded as this. When they’d first gotten on, she’d been sure they’d be recognized immediately. She’d been bracing herself for the dozen or more candid photos that would pop up online and trying to figure out how to spin their bizarre appearances. Costume party? Dare? At least they’d be being seen out together, so it wouldn’t be a total disaster, but it wasn’t ideal. She’d kicked herself for letting him talk her into going out like this.
But no one even gave them a second glance.
She looked up to see Ryder studying her. “See? It’s all about context. And presentation.” He nodded toward her very un-Victoria Ashby ensemble. “You look good in my T-shirt by the way.”
Vicky felt warmth creeping up from her chest, over her neck. Before it could get to her face, she changed the subject.
“If you won’t tell me, I’m going to guess. I bet you’re taking me to . . . a seminar on invertebrate biology.”
“Uh . . . no.”
“A private club for IT professionals?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Are all your guesses going to be nerd-based?”
“With you in plaid and that tie? Yes.” She paused, considering. “A sci-fi convention?”
He smirked. “If I were doing that, we’d be dressed as Klingons.”
“Maybe you’d be dressed as a Klingon. I’d be Trill all the way.”
He arched a brow. “Maybe I should have lent you my Borg shirt.”
“You have a Borg shirt?” She laughed.
“I am a man of many layers.”
She eyed him. He was joking, but she was beginning to realize that might be true.
Overhead, the loudspeaker squawked incomprehensibly, presumably announcing whatever was the next stop. She’d lost track, but they’d been traveling uptown. They must be pretty high up by now.
“That’s us,” Ryder said.
He reached for her hand, motioning toward the doors.
“Well, I guess I’ll find out the big secret soon enough,” she said, letting him lead her as they squeezed past the other passengers.
